Once I was entertaining a potential penis in my old apartment, and Dude X started talking about my “chunky” cat. [Chunky?!] Every women knows the following words are synonyms for “fat”: big, chunky, plump, soft, pretty + face, big + girl, and fat.

First, do not talk about my cats. You are not superior. And it is rude.

Second, if you are a dude, I implore you to stop using these words immediately.

They are not sexy. They piss women [and by that, I mean me] off and you will not get laid. However, if you like blue + balls, feel free to continue.

People/men/women/martians would get laid more if they just stop talking. Just smile at each other and blink. Sometimes you can make shadow puppets on the wall.

But no talking. Talking is bad.

This leads me to #2…

2) I don’t want to be sexually active because I generally don’t want people in my house.

Sure, I could go to a motel, but I am cheap. And I don’t like to drive.

I guess I could go to his house, but what if he is a serial killer. Then, I would be dead and end up on the news, which would suck.

Anyway, I am happy for my nieces and nephews to visit, but they just want pizza and control of the remote.

Adults require a special presentation – clean bathrooms and stuff. If they are really stupid, they make comments if the presentation is not up to par…

And commenting is rude. Because talking is bad. [Honestly, how many times do I have to say that?!]

Adults who comment on other peoples homes are called assholes rude.

If a dude does it, it makes me livid.

I am not sure why some men think I keep Pine Sol and a Swiffer Wet Jet in my bra – but I don’t. My bra is big, but not that big.

And I do not like housekeeping quizzes.

If you are a dude, it hermetically seals my labia together.

Literally.

“Don’t you ever clean the stove? It has dust and cat hair all over it.” DudeY said, not quite in a combative way, but combative enough to make me want to roundhouse kick him through the wall.

Duh. The magic flame box is hairy because:

a) The cats walk over it to get to the food on the counter – and because they think the kitchen counter is a supermarket. [Hello?]

b) What is a stove? Are you talking about the magic flame box?

And c) The only reason you are not dead right now is because I would be the only suspect.

Um… I think my response contained a lot of profanity and hand gestures. I am continuously trying to cut down on the profanity until I get bored, but holy cunnilingus – it isn’t that easy to do.

I have a general rule: If you want to comment on it, you must be willing to follow up with problem-solving action.

Here is how it works.

Like clean stoves? Grab a sponge-y or whatever and perform cleaning activities. Whatever those are? Or shut up.

Too many fur balls on my floor? Then, grab a Swiffer or a sweep-y thingamabog and have at it. Or shut up.

Like sinks not filled with dishes? Me too. Feel free to wash them. Or shut up.

Wondering why the air conditioning is still in the window? [Because it weighs 5 bazillion pounds!] Either grab a sweater and hunker down for winter or a frakking screwdriver and take it out of the window. Okay?

See a pattern?

My last straw with DudeY was this…

It was a beautiful spring day. I had on a sundress with a plunging V and smelled super sweet. Cartoon birds did my hair that morning and Disney tunes were playing in the background.

I see him come through the gate at the far end of my backyard as I recline as sexy-as-humanly possible. Back arched. Tatas out. [But look natural, dammit!]

He walks over, sits on the grass beside me, ignores all of my I’m-so-sexy-come-hither-shit, and started swatting in the air like locusts were attacking him.

“Bugs,” he whined, “did you know there where so many bugs?!” I am totally not a nature-chick. Nature to me is air freshener that is pine scented. If there were bugs, I would have been swaddled in a mosquito net and blasting a friggin’ blow torch – in true dramatic fashion.

I didn’t see any of the phantom bugs. Really.

And then, there is this one small, but relevant point: BUGS LIVE OUTSIDE?! Is it really that shocking? You big friggin’ not-getting-laid baby!

Which leads me to my final point today…

3) I don’t want to birth no babies.

Like ever.

Whatever the miracle of childbirth is – it can remain a mystery to me.

This uterus only holds fibroids. Okay? Not people.

Much like lots of bacon and one sunny-side up egg makes a hell of a great sandwich – sperm and one egg makes babies. [I know. Right? Who knew?]

They should give classes on this shit.

And call it – How To Make Sex Totally Unsexy.

I am entirely too neurotic to ignore the fact that 3 minutes of faking it can lead to people in my uterus – who eventually have to live in my house and be reared by someone – which is clearly not me.

I can’t even get to work on time – and they pay me money to do that.

How will I ever dress 2 people in the morning? TWO? It is just not possible.

And I hear there’s tons of other things to do with little people. That sounds like work. I hate work, even at work. And they pay me to pretend that I give a shit.

Once I babysat my niece and nephew for 4 days, to confirm that caring for other people would suck.

And you know what? It did.

It took me 6 days to recover. And I was a big, whiny baby the entire time.

No.

This will not do.

People have to remain outside of my uterus.

Yes, there are condoms. Are you telling me a microscopic sperm can’t figure out how to escape the top of a condom? It’s not like the sperm are breaking out of Alcatraz of something. It’s just a piece of plastic?!

And sperm are trained to swim. Like Michael Phelps. When is the last time that dude lost anything?! Like ever.

He is clearly an overachiever. Like sperm.

I’m just sayin’.

So that rounds up my Top 3 Reasons I Have An Underachieving Vagina.

Is the list longer than 3?

Does Christmas have presents?

Does Target have sales?

Does Kim Kardashian have an accidental sex tape for every sexual encounter?

Of course.

Perhaps I will continue the list on the next Vagina Friday.

Until then.

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